Journal of a Winter Spirit
by Shadowed Violin
Summary: Extracts from Jack's journal; thoughts he kept during all those years of solitude. "I'm sorry…but the truth is…sorry is just not enough…" Psychotic teenager with some serious abandonment issues, and a temper with seasonal powers to boot? Yikes.
1. Chapter 1

Humiliation

_By_: Shadowed Violin

_Poem_: My Sneaking Tears [Mark R. Slaughter]

_Disclaimer:_ Neither the poem below nor the movie – Rise of the Guardians – belongs to me.

_Note: _This work is to be considered as an extract from Jack Frost's journal.

* * *

_How heavy fell the rain that day_

_From burdened clouds of mournful grey._

_The torrent forced them stay their height –_

_Composure swayed by onerous might._

_My skin wrung wet with icy chill_

_As mud embraced that sodden hill;_

_But mind of mine had elsewhere gone –_

_'Twas clouds abandoned I was on._

_The driving drops advanced their gears_

_To camouflage my sneaking tears –_

_Whence now did swell such floods of pain_

_To see me melt into this rain…_

_On equal bearing now were we:_

_This rain, myself, in harmony._

* * *

Year 316. Days no longer applicable.

Embarrassment is a word, an understanding that everyone has likely encountered more than once in their life. It sucks, that words' meaning, and all that comes with it.

Being Jack Frost, I know what you're thinking; _How can an invisible being be embarrassed?_

And my answer is simple, really; Easily.

I know the humiliation you bear is different. You did or said something that came out wrong, and suddenly you're the laughing stock of the week. Or your trip in front of the person you like and _they _laugh. That hurts, I'm sure.

But me? Compared to me you don't know the meaning of the word. There is a distinct difference between _humiliation _and _embarrassment. _To be humiliated is to be made out as a fool, to be laughed at and mocked. To be embarrassed is to do something that makes you look or sound foolish, and people inevitably laugh. Maybe not _at _you, but at your antics.

I, unfortunately, have the extreme unluckiness to fall under the category of the former word. Humiliation and I are practically BFFs – you know, best friends for-_never. _

The other Spirits' favourite pastime is to mock me. I know what you're thinking; _That's it? A little mocking? Jeez, what a cry-baby. _

You're wrong. Their mocking is a word that contains several meanings:

-Torture.

-Laughter (Tsar, does it _never stop?)._

-Taunting.

-Verbal abuse.

-Never-ending laughter.

I know I listed that last one already, but I don't think you quite understand the extent of its damage.

They say laughter is the best medicine.

Well, it's also the worst drug. It haunts you; echoes of painful memories. You'll be building a snowman on a crisp, wintry morning, white enveloping everything, and suddenly, red splashes across your face in a deep blush as you recall one of those horrific moments.

You can never forget. Or, at the very least, you'll remember for a long, long time.

For you, it's not too bad. Eventually, your body and mind will begin to age, and beauty as well as time will lose themselves. You will die. It's a fact of life – or death, I should say. See, you only have, say, a max of one hundred years on this earth. Maybe one hundred and ten.

But me?

Infinite seconds.

An eternity of time stretching out before me.

Three centuries. I've been the laughing stock for three hundred years, not three weeks, days, hours…

It never stops: they'll always be there, and so will I. We're immortal – we can't die. Believe me, I would know…

So you think you got it bad? Well, step into my shoes. That is, if I had any. My life is, to put it simply, hell. And slowly, this place is melting me, breaking me.

And I know I'm supposed to stay positive … But honestly? It's never going to stop. In three thousand years, I'll still be here.

_It's _never _going to stop. _

And nothing is ever going to change.


	2. Chapter 2

_By_: Shadowed Violin.

_Poem by:_ Mark R. Slaughter, 2010, ©. "Rain Tears".

_Disclaimer:_ Not my movie, though it is pretty cool.

* * *

_Rain, tears, rain, tears,_

_Melding in torrential fears:_

_Chill of cloud; saddened eye-_

_In either way, a latent cry._

_Rain, tears, rain, tears,_

_Married under sceptic jeers:_

_'They'll never last.' Methinks not true, for_

_Either way, forever blue._

_Rain, tears, rain, tears,_

_Simple love with lacy cares,_

_Their intercourse will ne'er refrain _

_From rain and tears and tears and rain._

Year...Somewhere after the great disaster of the Blizzard of '68.

I broke my promise.

Again.

I said I wouldn't, but I did. Isn't it completely pathetic that I can't even last a full forty-eight hours?

It doesn't matter what the promise was, only that I broke it. It's the fact that I have no willpower, no backbone. It's not surprising that I'm all alone: being as utterly _useless _as I am has that effect on people – the urge to run in the opposite direction.

Even now, as I mope and write among the snow of winter, thoughts of breaking my promise – all my promises – are running through my head. Again, again, again…

It's not that I don't want to keep my word, I do, honestly, but the fact is that it's so _hard…_ And when the only person you would be betraying is yourself, it becomes just that much easier to just…

With that damned stupid voice saying _Just a quick peak…a second of respite…_

And yeah, I get that I'm supposed to be stronger, I'm _the _Winter Spirit, I'm supposed to shepherd winter as if it was a little baby animal, but MiM, it's like screaming into a blizzard the size of Ohio: you're the only fool.

And then come the promises, the new oaths, new determination, with thoughts of _This time I'll get it right _blowing through your mind with the speed of a Pooka…and then…you just stop.

You're like a little pebble; rolling along, picking up speed, until you hit a little bump and…voila…you're just another dead ol' rock on Road Abandoned, 'cause honestly, that's all we are. Tiny pieces of stone to be worn away by time, stripped of all our strength.

I'm just Jack.

The boy on the lake.

The invisible one that speaks to himself and writes journal entries that no one will ever read. It's not surprising, really…If I met me in the street, I'd run the other way.

Psychotic teenager with some serious abandonment issues, and a temper with seasonal powers to boot?

Yikes.

The Kangaroo was right, after all.

So I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm sorry.

I'm sorry that I'm not good enough.

I'm sorry that my deepest hopes and dreams are just dust in the wind.

I'm sorry that I blamed others for an invisibility that was cast upon me.

I'm sorry…

…but the truth is…

…sorry is just _not enough… _


End file.
